


Bacchanalia

by Aurae



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Exchange Assignment, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, POV First Person, PWP, Post-Book: Lies Sleeping, Ritual Sex, Spoilers for Lies Sleeping, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-17 16:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/pseuds/Aurae
Summary: Peter has made an agreement with Mr. Punch. Now, he just needs to keep it.





	Bacchanalia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilyC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyC/gifts).



The new Goat and Crocodile looked much the same as the old Goat and Crocodile. You’d think that after Martin Chorley a.k.a. Faceless Man the Second ripped the whole front clear off the place that Walbrook would’ve sprung for an opportunistic upgrade…but nah. I figure it must’ve taken a true master of modern interior design to make something this ugly and charmless.

At least the storeroom behind the bar had no worse than the usual dust bunnies and grime. Given the use it was going to be put to today, I might’ve expected worse, but in this, at least, it seemed I was lucky.

“I run a respectable pub,” said Walbrook, like she could read my mind. Maybe she could.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“I don’t understand why we need to do this _here_ ,” said Nightingale. It was the closest to whinging I’d ever heard from him.

I didn’t deign to reply. The complaint was mostly rhetorical at this stage, as I’d already explained my reasoning to my governor in detail. We’re coppers—we routinely arrest civilians who do this sort of thing in public places, and I wasn’t about to be the next Patrick Gale and his ilk, swinging goats around in ensanguined City of London office buildings. And I wasn’t about to invite Mr. Punch into the Folly either. Asking Walbrook to loan us a private venue seemed a reasonable compromise, her being Mr. Punch’s daughter and whatnot.

“ _You_ don’t have to be here,” I reminded Nightingale. “ _I’m_ the one who cut the deal with Mr. Punch.”

Nightingale favoured me with a pinched, painfully white male English facial expression. He didn’t think Mr. Punch was trustworthy, and he probably had a good point. Didn’t change the fact that I promised the revenant his freedom and regular ritual veneration in return for a moratorium on killings—whether by rearranging the victims’ faces or otherwise.

And since he did refrain from murdering Chorley—even if it took some talking down from the proverbial ledge by his erstwhile daughter, and even if Leslie had no similar compunctions against Martin-murdering—I still had my end of the bargain to honour.

So. _Yeah_. One latter-day, post-Roman bacchanalia to order, coming right up.

“As if I’d allow you to assume this kind of risk alone,” scoffed Nightingale.

Well. _Yeah_. I was a bit hazy on the metaphysical mechanics of the thing, but I’d reached the reasonable conclusion that the specifics of the ritual were less important than the sincerity of the intention. As such, reciting prayers to Bacchus in Greek or Latin, singing crazed songs, sacrificing animals and bathing in their blood, and/or streaking London Bridge in my birthday suit? Not required. Instead, I’d been planning to spend a solitary night drinking and wanking until I was too drunk to wank anymore and passed out cold on the floor.

Nightingale’s insistence that he be allowed to participate had altered the calculus, somewhat. As had my recent discovery that he was secretly hording some of Foxglove’s finer charcoal sketches of me. The nude ones, that is…which were definitely not drawn from life, I’ll have you know! Some of the proportions were ever so slightly too generous. Ahem.

I only hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed by the reality.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” said Walbrook. She was smirking as she shut the door to the storeroom securely behind her.

Getting Tyburn’s attention had been quite the production, but that was because I’d wanted her to grant me a boon. Mr. Punch, on the other hand, was merely going to be receiving his due, and the door latch had hardly _snicked_ before I could hear his presence. There was a giggle, then a howl of manic, dangerous laughter.

“He’s here,” said Nightingale. It wasn’t a question. He couldn’t hear the disembodied chortling like I could, but he’d come to know me well enough to know whenever I was hearing it.

The fact that we’d both instantaneously popped big, throbbing boners was also a pretty big clue. It was the sort of thing we at the Met would call “evidence-based investigative inference.”

My memory of what followed is a bit hazy, if I’m honest. I don’t remember how I ended up undressed and laid out on top of Nightingale, who was equally undressed, and I don’t remember who decided to kiss whom first. But we _were_ kissing—ravenously—and I had my arms wrapped around Nightingale’s shoulders, and Nightingale’s fingers were kneading my buttocks, and our erections were trapped between our bellies and rubbing together deliciously.

I rocked my hips, and Nightingale jerked and arched his back beneath me, his legs twining with mine, a sudden, warm wetness blooming between us.

“P-Peter…! Please…!”

For a moment I thought he’d come, needing only a bit of kissing and humping to push him over the edge, but I was wrong. As it turned out, Nightingale leaked more whilst aroused than some men were capable of ejaculating during orgasm. He’d managed to soak us both with his precome—it was damn impressive. I stroked out cocks together a few times, sharing the lubrication he’d produced, the pleasure made sweeter, more intense, and savouring the sensation of satin skin against satin skin.

Nightingale whimpered and repeated his pleas. He threw a leg over my shoulder, canting his hips upwards suggestively, so suggestively, in fact, that I couldn’t help but take his meaning as he intended it.

“Erm, are you sure?” I asked.

“Quite sure!” said Nightingale, gasping. “Quite sure!” The little wrinkled starburst pucker fluttered against the underside of my cock, and I was gasping too, trying to hold off an embarrassing, foreshortened conclusion to this affair.

I did my level best to ignore Punch’s mocking titter. I was _busy_.

We were so close already; we took it as slowly as we could stand. Despite his protestations of certainty, I was sceptical as to the extent of Nightingale’s prior experience with being fucked—anytime that counted as the recent past, at least. I wanted to be gentle with him. He was vise-tight and unyielding, and that made insertion rather difficult. I groaned with the effort. It was _hard_ (and so was I). If we hadn’t both been in a dazed endorphin high of bacchanalia-induced lust, I probably would have hurt him by accident.

Eventually, though, I was fully seated, and I commenced a slow, considerate, steady rhythm. I wasn’t thrusting so much as massaging his prostate gland as skilfully as I was able, intent on maximising his pleasure. It seemed to be working. Nightingale’s eyes were wide, unfocused, and his mouth hung open and slack. I leant forward and kissed him. There was plenty of tongue involvement in our kisses, but it was all teasing, tantalising, tender.

We didn’t last long. My orgasm came out of nowhere, and it was unimaginably, _insanely_ intense—like being sideswiped by a runaway lorry on a dual carriageway. I clung to Nightingale fiercely, my face buried into the side of his neck, stifling my cries, as I began to let go deep inside of him. Distantly, I was aware of him shuddering as he spilled himself, untouched.

Mr. Punch’s laughter sounded much less mocking now. The sound was more akin to…surprised delight? Actually, he almost sounded impressed.

There were some things to be impressed about, I suppose. Like, how I didn’t go soft after that first ejaculation, and neither did Nightingale. In fact, after a few seconds spent catching my breath, I was ready for another enthusiastic round of fucking. Or two. Or three. Or ten.

“More?” I asked. I hadn’t bothered to pull out. Now, I experimented with a firmer thrust.

“Yes, more.” His muscles pulsed against me encouragingly.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes. Quite sure.”

I needed no further encouragement. We went at it nonstop till morning.

In the morning, I found out Nightingale had given up his virginity as an act of veneration during our bacchanalia. I hadn’t known for certain, but I’d suspected, and it was why I was so keen to be gentle. In any event, I was flattered that he’d trusted me. Mr. Punch was most pleased with our offering as well, I could tell, most pleased, indeed. But obviously you can only lose it once, and I’d agreed to give worship in regular monthly instalments. So how was I gonna top that?

“No, how are _we_ going to top that?” corrected Nightingale as he adjusted his necktie, impeccable as ever, not the slightest sign of tiredness or of our recent debauchery.

“Erm…” Okay, he was gorgeous. And I may have been developing some ideas, right then and there. I felt my pulse quicken, and I didn’t know if I was excited or anxious about the prospect.

Maybe I was a little of both. I realised I cared about him very much.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on December 16, 2018.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Back to Square One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169092) by [darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/pseuds/darkrogue1)




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